


Diminuendo

by Imperium



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Angel!Stephen, Angst, Demon!Victor, Didn't work, Hurt/Comfort, I should have figured tagging out by now, I tried to stop, M/M, Michael and Lucifer are just mentioned?, Pining, They are mentioned a lot, Wingfic, blasphemy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:13:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22290877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imperium/pseuds/Imperium
Summary: For what is true hell if you were not to dream of heaven?
Relationships: Lucifer/Michael, Stephen Strange/Victor von Doom
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Diminuendo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_casual_cheesecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_casual_cheesecake/gifts).



> Thankyou so much to the lovely Cathalinaheart for the fantastic beta.  
> I hope you like it Cake.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Victor says without turning around. Stephen promptly chooses to ignore him, walking into Victor's sprawling bed chamber like he was still welcome.

"And yet, I am." His voice is simple enough, boots echoing proprietarily off the polished marbled floor. Victor keeps himself focused on the sound of the rhythmic thumps, the ground beneath Stephen's feet shifting with the hues of hell's temperament. 

"Then why are you?" He tries to shape the precious name with his mouth, feel the sound of it pass his lips, the only prayer Victor still believed in, but it wouldn't come out. Every mention of an Angel's true name would scorch his tongue. As for Stephen… the night promises to be painful. Victor does not wish to lose all his endurance before the sun even begins to set. 

“I can heal you," Stephen says after an extended pause. He doesn't dignify Victor's previous question with a response. He sounds rather giddy, drunk on his impertinence -  _ didn't big brother teach you not to wander around after dark?, _ "as you well know, I've always been rather extraordinarily talented at that particular field.” he finishes with the typical naivety of the untarnished, as if he could fool Victor into believing this vestige of comfort he was forcing between them. 

He huffs in almost-genuine amusement.

“Careful Angel, you don’t  _ want _ to fall do you?”

When Stephen lapses into woeful silence, flutters in the edge of his conscious like a fretful  _ mother,  _ Victor sighs, “I appreciate the offer.” And he does. Stephen visiting him here after  _ everything _ means more than he could ever express, “But even you cannot heal me.”

Stephen sidles closer to Victor’s back. He brings with him the scent of heavenly blossoms and the clear crisp air of Eden.

“My wings can heal you, Victor. Let me leave you a few feathers.” He sounds sad, compassionate - like Victor's wounds were hurting  _ him,  _ and were not Victor's burden alone to bear. 

He's dancing in the face of insubordination, coming here and offering to  _ heal  _ a demon. Father wouldn't say much, Victor knows, the Old Man fancies himself a merciful Lord, but  _ disobeying  _ was not something easily spared in Heaven.

Even Stephen's presence in this heathen palace is prohibited, Victor does not even  _ want  _ him here, hell's mutations were attracted to purity like moths to a flame that would sooner burn out than give any warmth. So far out of His protection, he does not fancy he can help Stephen, or have Stephen help him for that matter _.  _

_Salvation._ What a ridiculous beautiful notion. But he cares not for it regardless. He perhaps wants it even _less_ than he deserves it, and he had never been what one would consider worthy in the first place. 

"I kill our brethren and you come here and offer me condolence?” Victor is not particularly surprised, choosing a side has never been his lover's strongest suite. 

He is stiff behind Victor, but warm as ever when he curls a gentle hand around Victor’s bicep, turning him around. Victor shields his eyes but he needn’t have bothered. Stephen does not have his wings spread behind him, but then again, even if he had, Victor could not have beheld them, sucked dry of any purity and divinity - Victor is no longer  _ capable _ of experiencing heavenly splendour, not even a glimpse of his beloved’s wings. The shifting hues of red, orange and gold that were Stephen’s might, his power and his pride - softer than the hair of a babe, pleasantly welcoming Victor's fingers to sink into the soft fluff, while they hid behind the impossibly heavy trees, curled into each other while Victor preened his feathers, like sorrow was something that would never dare touch them. Memories dearer than life itself, treasured tenderly within the depths of Victor's tortured mind. 

Victor had had his own wings of course - green as summer grass and dark as jade, let them trail behind him while he flew about in heaven, fancied that it was his own portion of Eden with him,  _ always - _ so he could find his way  _ back _ …Victor takes a deep breath. For a second he misses home  _ so much  _ \- it was best not to dwell on such things, they were better left behind, in the past where his treacherous longing belonged. 

Lost innocence was not something to be recovered. He knows that. Granted, The nostalgia  _ is _ a part of whenever he sees Stephen. He can forgive and forget the rest - they were only  _ family,  _ but  _ Stephen _ . He was not so easily moved past. He had already escaped Victor's judgement once. 

Even Dream had done such a thing. Loved a mortal, locked her in hell for spurning him. He wishes he could lock Stephen away. He wishes he could set Stephen free from his own poisonous influence. Most of all, Victor wishes he could see Stephen’s wings, even if the light were to scorch his eyes, Victor would know they were there, Victor would know that his happiness had once been real, and that he’d walked in the diamond shores of the heavenly garden with his lover and gloried in the peace and prosperity of Eternal Paradise. 

He feels this is the worst punishment of them all. Not the disfigurement, not the terrible wounds that made him cover his face (He was not ashamed. Why should he fear the scars of an arrogant God? Victor was a survivor.) But taking away his divine sight so he could no longer  _ see Stephen’s wings; _ Even the lines of his body are blurred and out of focus, diffusing in the breath between the tip of his fingers and the cold evening air. It’s like Victor is possessed of no more than the weak sight of a human. It's a cruelty that even a demon cannot quite fathom. 

His punishment is too extraordinary for his crime. The Devil could still see the Wings of  _ his _ lover - but Victor had not been extended such a favour. 

_ Father's favourites. The rest of them….not so much. They were reduced to  _ this _ despicable condition.  _

Victor does not fear admitting that he got himself into this pathetic situation - but he does not wish Stephen to see him in it. Even worse, he does not wish for Stephen to leave Heaven for this farce of a union - because Stephen  _ would _ \- in his loyalty, as lovely as his glittering heart struck eyes had been when he’d first chose heaven, as to how he’d turn his back on heaven and choose Victor now. 

Earth was a place far too cruel for Angels. Even for back-stabbing ones.

He looks at Stephen’s hands on his own, warm like a hearth, gold like the rising sun, scarred like if he were a human.

_ Since when had his healer become a warrior? _

He slaps it away, pulling his robe off and dropping it behind him.

Stephen bristles behind him at the obvious spurn. 

"You shalln't get away with this for long you know," he says, sounding tired. Victor does not need to turn around to know his Angel's hands are shaking. "He is angry with you." 

Victor snorts. "When isn't He?” As the Angel of Doom and Destruction he hadn't had much opportunity to blend with his finer brethren, who'd sprouted more fancy names, he'd just been Angel Doom. It wasn't much surprise that he was better at institutional chaos as a Demon. 

"Are you running His errands now? What? Is Gabriel too busy?" He has little patience now, if he ever did, for God's pretty little Archangels who always managed to get everything they ever wanted and still whine without cease. 

"I came here without leave." Stephen says tentatively.

Victor snorts. “You're toeing a dangerous line there Angel," He says, taking his gauntlet off, but leaving the breastplate on. Their basic nature is to be on opposing sides now, and however dear he may be, an angel is still an angel. Even the Devil knows that. "Do you fear becoming a glorified messenger boy? Do not worry, you are under Raphael's purview. Battle is not your forte." He unclasps his boots, drops his feet to rest on the pleasantly cold stone. "You should talk to Michael if you want your pride satisfied, reach the gloried heights of your  _ ambition."  _ He mocks. Blood bubbles in his throat at his blasphemy. But the Archangels were too frayed to have an impact any stronger. Demons cursed these three on a regular basis. The caverns of his mouth blister nevertheless, he spits some blood out.

_ Forgive me Father, I took my brother's names in vain.  _

Stephen cares even less them their Father does, crosses the room to lean against one of Victor's heavy wooden cabinets, his hands still shaking, brows furrowed heavily with utter  _ exhaustion _ , body sagged and head hung. Victor immediately feels foolish. An armistice was no place for arguments. But he does not apologise. Stephen doesn't expect him to.

He turns away, tries to stifle the embarrassment. Stephen is obtrusively present around him and inside him - a haunting he can never escape. His salvation and his sin. It's taking all of Victor's considerable strength to _not_ turn around and look at him - but Stephen does not seek his attention, his eyes are now fused to the back of Victor's skull, like he was curious, like he was debating the best way of picking him apart. Perhaps, Victor would even dare an indulgence, hold Stephen against the wall, pin him to it by his throat, fuck him dry and sink his claws into those pristine feathers, but only after nailing them to it, watch the feathers bleed pain, and know that no one could take _that_ away from him, not his petty little vendettas. But his lover was no weakling easily misled. He would probably chop Victor's cock off for sport. Take it as a gift to their Primordial family - it might even make him a tolerated favourite for a week or so. The inevitable wound already begins to chafe eagerly beneath his skin, fickle thing. If nothing else, Victor's always had a keen sense for impending doom. It's the weakness of flesh, the corruption of time long spent between creatures slave to their own desires - this disparaging influence of humanity. As if all the damage they had done wasn't already enough. 

He's about to make a hurtful comment to that regard, wants to remind Stephen that even if Victor had hesitated to bend to the tyranny of heaven, he had not ever hesitated to go on his knees for his lover; when,- a creak, and he hears Stephen abruptly push off the cupboard - "What if I stopped dancing the tightrope," he begins with his usual lack of survival instinct, "what if I  _ fell- _ " 

Victor is on him before he can finish, across the room, slamming him to the wall with one filthy hand, drenched and seared with angelic and human blood - claws caked with Charsoc's fumes, wrapped around Stephen's throat- the other over his mouth. The stone cracks when Stephen’s head slams into it.

His breath blooms warm between them, Victor can feel Stephen’s grace shifting beneath his thin skin, a fight or flight instinct too long ingrained in them now. He pushes away the grief that immediately clots his throat at that.

"Look at me," he growls at his former lover. Shakes Stephen when he keeps his gaze averted - too  _ cowardly  _ to witness Victor's demonic visage - his misshapen nose, his eyes bleeding hellfire - the horns curving wickedly over Stephen's head. "Look at me, Stephen." 

Stephen looks. 

"Is this what you want?" He hisses. 

Stephen's eyes look even lovelier up close, Victor can see the divine might gathering up behind them. The beloved traitor had probably already cried a hail mary to Michael, but Victor is beyond caring at the moment.

"You will never be like me, do you understand?"

He let's his claws sink into Stephen's throat - his blood boils hot and golden over Victor's hands, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t moan piteously in pain like everyone else would have. It’s why he’s so different from the rest, so  _ dear _ , Stephen would love the pain Victor would inflict on him almost as much as Victor enjoyed doing it. 

His precious masochist, his  _ angel _ , in the purest sense: compassionate and just - and as much a soldier as the rest of them. Victor should give him more credit. 

Stephen ignores his bleeding throat, he doesn’t even seem to notice it, pulls his divine gaze away from Victor's eyes to his black jagged horns, a slow look of dawning wonderment in his face. He exhales out a warm gust of air, it blows pleasantly against Victor’s lips. 

Stephen raises a tremulous hand, runs a finger down the curved length like a curious lover - like it's the first time he's experiencing Victor's grotesque in it's true sense, and not something they'd all witnessed that day when Lucifer had first refused to bend. His finger is cool and soothing, smells of herbs and medicine. Like he could heal Victor with its touch alone. 

Stephen drags his hand down carefully, mindful of the ridges, the parts where his hair is clotted heavy and plastered to his skull, curving it over the crown of Victor's head stroking the down of his brow, skirting his eye-lids, to his nose, to rest pliantly over his lips, patting his fangs like it was nothing to be feared, like it wasn’t something Victor had used to rip out throats of their mutual family. 

_ Forgiveness _ . It’s a novel feeling.

Victor's non-existent heart beats in tandem with Stephen's.

"Oh Victor." And by Father, his voice is drenched in so much compassion! A pervasive love that comes from the entire being - a kind of love only Angels were  _ ever _ capable of, true and  _ profound,  _ "How thou hast fallen, my beloved!" 

Victor cannot bear the holy lament. It's the worst kind of daring, to steal the hymn so wretchedly used by The  _ Lovers,  _ reserved solely for the Son of Morning, it is the most blatant kind of  _ disobedience,  _ the dearest declaration of Eternal love - the  _ highest  _ of all honours. 

Victor kisses him before he can stop himself, a desperate clawing thing with his fanged teeth and forked tongue, biting it's way, claiming the painfully hot cavern of Stephen's mouth. It’s like kissing Lady Death herself. 

Maybe he spits some of hell poison into him, or maybe Stephen accidentally leaks into him some of his own inherent goodness, but they are closer than they’ve been in millena. Their edges fused and blending together seamlessly - like they had never been torn asunder by the mechanisations of a lonely God. Victor's eyes slide shut, and he can feel the might of Stephen's wings arching up - pious  _ innocent _ pleasure. 

He pushes Stephen's body tight against the wall, a hand on his throat, sharp nails stroking the soft of his cheek - Stephen's blood clots behind Victor's nails - his own sweet _ownership,_ kisses further into his mouth, pulls his head back, lets his tongue scorch a trail down the dip of Stephen’s neck sucking the feebly dribbling blood into his mouth. It burns his mouth like drinking acid - rips holes in his lungs, tears the tender linings of his stomach - but Victor cannot bring himself to care. He would heal, and his lover is twisting and writhing against him, desperately pushing up against the restraints Victor had imposed on him to try and make contact. He could burst free if he truly wanted of course, An injured Demon was no match for an Angel, even of the healer kind. He only remains there because he _wants_ to, and Victor loves and hates him all the more for it. 

It's that overwhelming adoration, that longing, that hopeless  _ greed  _ of always wanting that which he cannot have that makes him open his eyes, to one precious glimpse of Stephen's wings - a foolish vanity that makes him think he could discover his home again. He acknowledges the folly even as he does it, but he opens himself to the hurt.

It  _ sears _ , like the radiance of a trillion dazzling suns, the tender torture - all encompassing and beyond comprehension. He feels his eyes melting in his skull, the skin around them bubbling and shrivelling into itself, fleeing desperately away from the pain, but where would it  _ go _ ? His home is right  _ here, _ in his unworthy arms.

Victor moans, falls to his knees. He's so ashamed. He'd desperately yearned for a look, just for a fleeting second, that he'd be able to see  _ Stephen _ ,- 

"Victor." Stephen's voice is careful, soothing. 

_ My Dear Healer.  _

It's too much. Even for Victor's battered heart. This is simply  _ too much _ . 

"Leave me, Angel." He says quietly, tries not to weep in pain, turns his head away. He does not want Stephen to see how much this hurts him, how much  _ he  _ does, even if it's by accident, even if it's the punishment for Victor's sins alone, "We have nothing left to say here. I would not ever wish this on you,-"

"I do not take commands from you," Stephen says mildly, let's Victor have his peace and distance, then more gently - " it's not your decision to make."

Victor's heart clenches. "You think it's yours?" He wonders, keeps his eyes to the ground, "you think you can leave  _ home  _ to this? The things I've done - there is no repentance for this Stephen." He steels himself, "and you and me, that's history." 

Stephen trembles above him. Angels couldn't lie, and Victor  _ is  _ a fallen Angel - it's true. Victor would drain the rest of his divine grace, throw himself on an Empyrean steel dagger, before subjecting Stephen to his mistakes. 

"Go away, Angel," he says again. "Don't ever come to see me again." 

Stephen shifts, his jewelled boots move away from Victor and toward the balcony.

"I'll always come to see you," he says quietly. Victor turns around to look again, for he is even now, little more than a slave to his heart.  Later, he'd think it was a trick of light, or a game played by hell's infernal illusions - for a second, he'd even dare to think its blessing from his Father, for how else could he  _ see _ ? Stephen's wings - dazzling like the setting sun, every hue and every tender feather, rustling and shifting, delicately fanned out. The only heaven Victor had ever known. 

A flap, and he's  _ gone _ . It’s strange that he was ever there.

Maybe he wasn't. Maybe the pain had made him delusional.

His eyes slide to the ground weakly, gummy and hot - and  _ oh _ there! - right next to his hand lays a feather, as red as a blooming newborn rose, as red as the human blood dripping down his face. 

Victor reaches a hand out, it trembles awfully - the shameless beast, and carefully gathers up the feather, and adds it to the string draped around his neck.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Lucifer's above-mentioned lover is Michael.  
> As for everything else... I tried.


End file.
